


Mama Said

by TelepathJeneral



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Multi, NSFW, bad people get worse, it's a three-way ship but there isn't a tag for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-06-13 07:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15359232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelepathJeneral/pseuds/TelepathJeneral
Summary: Miles Upshur never came to Mount Massive. Billy and Eddie had to get out on their own--and need to find a purpose in their new life. Birds of a feather flock together, perhaps...and it doesn't hurt to have a swarm of nanites tangled up in their nest.





	1. Chapter 1

Gluskin does not know how he’s gotten here. He remembers the Place Below, the sterile brightness and the eyes and the hands and the _teeth_ , but that memory is fading. He remembers his new home, the one he’d made so carefully, so _carefully,_ but it had all been ruined. He can’t remember why he left.

“A house is not a home without _love_.”

He rubs his finger against his thumb, picturing the message spelled out in cross-stitch. It would fit so nicely above the stove. Where his wife-

Where his _mother-_

Where his _darling_ would stand.

But there is no stove. He does not have a home. Or even a house. His house is ruined now, caving in under its own weight, but he has learned to live with loss. He has not stopped searching.

Someone else is with him. Someone wreathed in shadow, someone who dragged him out of his house and screamed until his ears were raw. Gluskin is not sure what this means. He has stumbled through woods, crossed creeks and rivers and climbed up raw rock faces. He does not know _why_.

But he does know that every time he stops, something else pulls him forward, shouting and cajoling him in the way he remembers so so _so_ well.

_Just a little more, honey, just a few more minutes for daddy-_

_You’re a brave girl, aren’t you, so_ brave _. I love it when you’re brave for me._

But the thing in his head, tugging at his chest, never calls him by name. It does not use the words, it does not use the names. Those come from his own brain, and he wants to shake himself apart because he can tell that there is _something else_ inside him co-opting his memories.

He wants to be able to explain that he isn’t crazy. But his friend, his new companion, doesn’t seem to care. It hasn’t even said anything this whole time, at least not audibly. It has been a night, and a day, and a night again, and Gluskin’s hands are raw and his stomach aches. At least in the Place Below, they made some pretense at caring for him. The food was semi-regular, if not tasty or fulfilling.

There are trees all around him, and the scent is intoxicating, with undertones of earth and decay and the rain filtering in. He could cry with the pleasure of it, of simply having something _new_ instead of the same woody smell of the Old Place. He can’t remember eating. He can’t remember the last time his companion-leader-friend did anything. Gluskin stumbles as he feels his knees weaken, and he leans against a tree as he tries to focus. The sun is rising. It’s much too bright out here.

“Keep moving.” The voice is different this time, no longer a mere whisper of thought. Gluskin closes his eyes, breathing in, and scowls as he tenses.

“You never cared, you never _saw_ —”

“It wants us to _move._ ” The voice comes again, a hand gripping Gluskin’s shoulder. Gluskin hisses, standing, but the movement is enough to make him waver.

“You aren’t him.”

“Yes I am.” The voice—a man—contradicts, grabbing Gluskin by the upper arm to half-drag him forward.

“We _left_ the house, I had my home there, I had—”

“You had your demented art is what you had—” The hand tenses, the other man shuddering, and Gluskin opens his eyes to watch the man pause. “No good women.”

“No good women.” Gluskin agrees, stumbling forward as the man leads him. The man is wearing something bloody and dark, discolored with the exertion of travel, but above that he is bald and fair-skinned. He could be called sickly, but his hands and legs are just as strong as Gluskin’s, and Gluskin chooses not to fight against him.

“We’re _alone_.” The other man breathes, lurching as Gluskin’s feet fall out of step. “Out here. No more…distractions.”

“No one will hear you.” Gluskin growls, his own mind rebelling against him, and he reaches out to grab the other man’s collar. The impulse tugs at him, draws his attention to the man’s crotch, and he balls a fist in preparation, realizing his possibilities—

_What a good_

_Little_

_Girl-_

“None of _that_.” The man inhales sharply, a low groan in his throat, and Gluskin’s head snaps back as a fist connects with his jaw. Before he gets properly angry, the whispers come back, the shadows deepening even in the light of dawn.

The impulse…changes.

The reminders, the memories, stop their repetition, and Gluskin finds himself out of breath as he stands alone in the woods.

The other man faces him, expression eerily neutral, and neither of them say anything until the man looks sharply to one side.

“We keep moving.”

Gluskin is not in the mood to argue, and he follows behind his companion, using the trees to support himself from time to time. He is unsure why this other person is leading, or where he is leading them to, but he wanders and staggers and follows. As he starts to feel the itch again, the gnawing in his belly and the twitching in his brain, they emerge into a clearing where a small cabin sits, unobtrusive among the trees. Gluskin is not coherent enough to determine what to do, and so he watches stupidly as the other man smashes a window and opens the front door to the cabin to let them both inside.

There is no need for talking any longer: the other goes to the kitchen, rummaging roughly through cabinets and drawers, and Gluskin hears the sound of bestial consumption as the other man rips into packaged goods. Gluskin wants to berate him, or punish him—this is a _kitchen_ , does he not realize that, a _real kitchen_ with a _stove_ where someone can stand—but the appeal of food is too great, and Gluskin kneels on the floor to gather up the spilled oatmeal and granola.

The taste is odd, and his mouth is dry, but the idiot is standing in the way of the sink, shoveling handfuls of the crumbly foodstuff into his mouth. Gluskin paces himself, watching, knowing preternaturally how the other man’s greed will overcome him, and as he watches, the man begins to choke. He struggles, with all the tells that Gluskin recognizes, and Gluskin stands to gather his strength as the other man presses himself against the edge of the counter. A few rough moments of struggle, and the man is vomiting into the sink, spitting acid atop the undigested portions he’d managed to swallow.

“You _imbecile_.” Gluskin slips easily into the rage, his anger justified for the first time in days. “We needed that, you greedy little _slut_ , you—”

Something changes.

“You _fucking prick_. I’m _hungry_.”

“Eat it, then, if you’re so damn starved.” The man wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, backing away from the sink to catch his breath. “I have a name.”

“Incredible.” Gluskin snarls, turning on the sink to cup the water in his hands.

“Billy.”

Gluskin ignores him, drinking deeply from the sink to wash down the particles of oatmeal in his mouth. The other man watches, breathing through his mouth, and Gluskin turns to brace himself as Bastard-Billy lunges forward again. In the light of day, the whispers and the shadows are less powerful. Billy is _angry_. Gluskin is slammed against the counter, Billy’s hands barely forming fists as he reaches for Gluskin’s head. Gluskin responds in kind, lowering his head to butt against Billy.

Their struggle is brief but intense, with Billy grabbing Gluskin’s collar to slam him against the counter and Gluskin tackling Billy by the waist to throw him backwards. Gluskin is not sure what happens exactly—he is still confused, and his head is ringing from the first blow—but he is not tired. He is more than capable, with the first bit of food and water in his system, but something tugs at him. Something pulls him back. Something is pulling at Billy, swarming over his eyes and nose and face, and Gluskin can feel himself weakening.

With a roar, the shadows rush in, swallowing them both in darkness.

+++

When Gluskin wakes, the world is dark again, and it takes him several minutes to realize that night has fallen. The sink is still running, and Gluskin gets to his feet slowly, his body sore and his head pounding. His first move is to turn off the water, supporting himself against the counter, and he closes his eyes to breathe deeply for a long time.

The shadows. They are from the Place Below. Billy is also from the Place Below—Gluskin can tell, from his scars. Gluskin can feel the itches, the urges, the compulsions that beg him to tear at his face and to turn on Billy’s body, to find the nearest knife and cut and cut and _cut_.

But something stops him.

Gluskin raises his hand, turning to try and slap the still unconscious Billy across the face. He manages to do it once, hearing the sharp sound of skin on skin, but as he tries to stand and find a knife, his hand refuses to obey him. It is difficult, the moment by moment struggle that feels like dragging himself through burning sand, and Billy wakes as Gluskin is beginning to breathe more heavily. Billy does not have Gluskin’s problems, it seems. Billy does not have the discoloration, the full scarring, the _growth_ that Gluskin has. He could even pass for normal.

Gluskin wheezes through his mouth, unsure of what he is meant to do now. Billy’s eyes are open, but he is not moving. _Gluskin_ is not moving. He breathes, chest heaving, and tries to think.

_Get married, son, and see._

“How happy…” Gluskin groans, edging himself backwards, finally collapsing back against the floor to focus on breathing. Billy sits up, bringing his hands to his chest, and shivers as he focuses on the tile.

“Mama.”

“Your mother can’t help you now, boy.” Gluskin closes his eyes, the memory pushing him deeper, and he whines as he arches back against the cabinet. The shadows cannot stop him this time, the tug ever-insistent.

“We have to _find Mama_.”

“There’s no _good girls_ left—” Gluskin gasps, memories twisting, and he can barely make out the shadow of Billy standing over him.

“Mama.”

_Get married._

“We can find her now.”

_Get ma **rried**_ **.**

“We have to _find her_.”

**_Get married, son._ **

Gluskin can only breathe, his mind too twisted up to respond properly. It is easier to remember, to slip backwards, to think about Mother and how she turned her back and how she _never watched properly_ , and to think about how Father smiled as he made his promises. But the shadows work both ways. They are pushing him, tugging at him, tearing him apart, but they are also numbing him to the worst parts of this pain.

They have a purpose.

He can think _clearly_ —or clearer—for the first time in years. The itch is there, the twitch under his skin, but he can look at Billy without seeing _others_. The shadows may be swarming, crawling over Billy to hide him from the world, but Gluskin feels as though he’s seeing him properly for the first time.

“Find her.”

“ _Find her_.”

Get married, son, and see.

A house is not a home without _love._

They are no longer tied to the Place Below.

They are _free._


	2. Chapter 2

The bathroom is dark and cold, with the window covered and the single light flicked off. Christina sits in the bathtub, her pants missing and her hands bound, and she thinks.

Thinking is the only thing left to her now. The men, the _lunatics_ , had taken everything, and she only has her shirt left. They’d fought over that. The bald one, the younger-looking one, had stopped the other one from stripping her entirely, and when he smoothed the duct tape over her mouth, she swore he had looked at her with apology in his eyes.

She knows this sort of thing. She knows that she needs to convince them to fight, to spark some sort of argument. If they don’t agree with each other, then they might disagree about keeping her here.

Then again, they might disagree about keeping her alive at all.

This is not her sort of thing. Not at all. She does very little with her life, when it was still _her_ life, and she does not sit around imagining doomsday scenarios. This is not something one can _plan_ for. But she can wait, and watch, and listen.

They feed her, at least. And they haven’t tortured her, as far as she can tell. The slaps and the hitting, tossing her into the bathtub, that all seems normal in comparison with her imagination. They could do worse.

And despite the isolation, she hasn’t been lonely. She spends most of her days alone, so that doesn’t come as a surprise, but after she exhausted herself in struggling, she rested against the bathtub.

And she _dreamed._

The dream is vague and unclear, but it is not always bad. It riles her up first, reminding her of Jakob and Ethan and Cass, and just when she begins to cry, it stops. It soothes her, showing her a path forward. Jakob was angry because he was _lonely_. Ethan was angry because he was _needy_. Cass was angry because she was _jealous_. She could have helped, but she was not strong enough.

At least, she was not strong enough then.

It has been days, maybe more than a week, as Christina considers these things. Her body aches, but the hunger is not as pressing. She knows that they will come. She looks _forward_ to their arrival. She knows about Stockholm Syndrome, all those articles about “the real Beauty and the Beast” that her friends had loved in high school. But the knowing is not enough to prevent the rush of excitement that comes when the door opens, and _he_ steps inside.

It isn’t the young one this time. She’s curious, but she keeps her eyes lowered. The older one hadn’t liked it when she met his eyes before. She’d been called the names before, but with this new presence in her head, it hurts more somehow. She scoots backwards, propping herself against the back of the tub, and waits.

The man—thing, whatever he is— _growls_ , sitting on the toilet lid to face her. He isn’t carrying a bowl. They always come with bowls, because soup is easy to make and easy to feed. She has never wondered who does the cooking. But now, watching this man’s hands, watching him trace the edge of a plate, she wonders.

“You…” His words are lost in a grumble, and she does not move. She can smell the richness of the food, the meat cut into small strips on the plate, and she is _hungry_ , but she restrains herself.

_Time out for good behavior? This isn’t normal prison. This is—_

“So docile.” The man moves, kneeling beside the tub. She refuses to look up, focused on the edge of the tub instead, and he hums to himself before setting the plate down. It takes moments, it takes _years_ , but he reaches up, touching her chin before sucking in air through his teeth.

“You are still _beautiful._ ” His nails are sharp and long, untrimmed. She closes her eyes, thinking, and braces herself as he picks at the tape on her mouth and peels it off, excruciatingly slow. “ _Yes_.”

She does not _know_ , she does not know what to do, she doesn’t _know_. She breathes deeply, curling her fingers around the tape on her hands, and opens her eyes again to find a fork proffered with a cube of meat on the end.

“I made this. For you.” He is explaining himself now, stroking the side of her face while offering the fork. Christina opens her mouth carefully, still bracing herself, but the man moves slowly. He is careful not to surprise her, gripping her cheek while she chews and swallows.

“ _Yes._ Good.” He hums in approval, his nails digging into the skin beneath her ear. It has been so long since anyone has touched her, since someone has touched her so _greedily_ , and she can tell that it takes sincere effort to keep him back. He wars with himself. The other one doesn’t do this, he is almost _afraid_ to touch her, even when removing the tape to feed her. But this one…he _wants_.

“Mm.” She matches his hum, nodding once to reflect her appreciation. She can see his smile, so broad and clean, and it tugs her attention upwards.

“I made it for you.” He repeats, offering another bite of meat. She takes it, relishing the flavor (and it has real flavor, more than the beans and peas of the soups). He smiles, his grip strong, and she swallows before jerking backwards to escape his grip.

Oh, he is angry. She can tell, she can see the anger, she has seen so much _anger_ from everyone, and she feels herself start to panic. The panic comes easy—

But she is _stronger now._

“I love it.” She reassures him, nodding once. Slow movements are more effective than quick ones, and he slows himself to match her pace. His eyes are bright, bright blue, so shockingly sharp in his dark face, and she looks into his eyes while thinking frantically.

“You have…done so _good_.” She says, nodding again. “You make me so happy. _So_ happy.”

His faint smile freezes, his hand tensing against the rim of the tub. He has gone brittle, like a plant frozen in the frost, and Christina sinks deeper into the fear.

This is a strange and delicate dance. But something pulls her out. Something is dragging her out, something is holding him back, and they stare at each other across the small chasm of tub.

A thudding from outside breaks their trance, and Christina looks up as another figure comes to the bathroom door. The younger man, the one she’s taken to thinking of as ‘Little Boy’ (her own joke, there, her dad always liked talking about the bombers) stares at them both, his eyes wide as he focuses on the other man.

The first man meets his gaze, putting another portion of meat on the end of the fork.

“You aren’t going to hurt her.” Little Boy waits, his thick hands white against the doorframe, and Christina holds her breath.

“I—”

“She is _Mama_.”

“Mama never—”

“Mama _loves us!”_ The young man screeches, eyes wide, and Christina pushes herself against the back of the tub as her breath comes back, quick and fast.

“Mama loves you.” She repeats, more out of desperation than out of any real logical process. The younger man whips his gaze to her, still on edge, but his smile is at least a sign of progress.

“Mother—” The other man, the older man, demands her attention next, the fork quivering in his hand. Christina looks to him, taking another breath, and faces him more evenly while watching him collapse.

“I am Mother now.”

His face contorts, deforming around the angry red growths, and Christina watches. She can do nothing but watch. He collapses against the tub, his arm supporting his forehead, and the plate clatters to the floor as he begins to shake. Christina is _angry_. That was _her food,_ and this selfish bastard is too busy thinking about “Mother” to even feed her. But getting angry will not be productive. He is still stronger, and she is still bound, and she _needs_ to eat.

She shuffles forward again, able to smell the decay and dirt lingering on his clothes, and hums to herself. His shaking stops, though he makes no other acknowledgement of her presence.

“Let me see what you’ve done. Let me know how proud you can be, how proud you make me.”

“Any woman—” The man tenses, pushing himself upwards, and gets to his feet to face her again. This is the most she’s spoken in all this time, and he is having trouble accepting it. But the thing in her head is working hard to keep him from hurting her. And Little Boy is still watching.

“I’m sorry.” He forces through thick lips, hands curling into fists, and he storms from the room to leave Christina alone with her more familiar captor.

It is now his turn to step forward, crouching to pick up the plate from the floor. Christina watches, silent, until he has cleaned up the mess and set the plate aside. This is her chance. They haven’t replaced the tape, probably because she still needs to eat, and she is alone with the younger one.

“You’re going to protect Mama.”

The man blinks at her, nodding slowly. “You can call me Billy.”

“Billy.” She repeats, smiling. Smiling _wide_. “Billy, Mama loves you.”

“Mama would never hurt us.” Billy says, his eyes darkening with anger. She allows her own smile to fade, trying to think of what she did wrong, what is making him angry, but the emotion passes and he smooths over the moment with a nod.

She will need to be careful. Billy is clearly more sympathetic, more attached to his idea of Mama, but the other one is the more dangerous. He is not convinced that she will play nicely. And he would rather be angry, would rather find fault, than adopt her fully.

“Eddie isn’t sure he wants you.”

 _Eddie._ So they do have names. They’ve never talked like this, they’ve never had to refer to each other in the third person this way, and Christina is impressed by the dimensions being revealed.

“Do I…want Eddie to want me?”

Billy shudders, moaning as he backs away from the tub. “ _Mama_.”

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what this means, she doesn’t know what to say, but Billy doesn’t need her response. He leaves, easily enough, and Christina is left alone with her thoughts again.

Alone with the thing in her head, whispering thoughts. Giving her dreams. Showing her the images of what these men have done.

There is more to face. There is more to come. But she will be strong.

A mother must learn to be strong for her children.


	3. Chapter 3

It is daytime when they take her from the room. She isn’t sure about time any longer, but she can see how the other windows are at least uncovered, and the sunlight is surprisingly bright. At some point, they started giving her two meals, instead of one, and her body does not ache as much. Her skin has been rubbed raw, sores forming on her buttocks and her wrists and the edge of her hairline, but she has stopped worrying. It is freeing, to not have to _worry_. Billy watches over her, and Eddie brings her food. She has been alone, but she is never lonely.

It is difficult for her to stand, and Billy has to hold her arm as she staggers through the doorway. Eddie is watching, still angry, his brow furrowed, but neither of them have explained their purpose here.

Billy’s hands are soft, smooth, without the calluses one would expect on a man of his size. Christina leans into him as much as she feels able, feeling the buildup of dirt and grime on the floor. As he leads her towards another door, Christina is hit with a wave of nausea, and it isn’t until they open the door that she begins to realize why.

There is another girl. Another girl, stripped fully, splayed against the bed in a pool of her own blood. Christina gasps, clinging to Billy, and he holds her upright without moving.

“Sometimes we make mistakes.” He explains, his tone flat. She can feel herself falling, eyes riveted on the deep slashes in the girl’s arms, her legs, her _groin_ —

“She was nothing but a greedy _whore_.” Eddie is standing behind them, and spits at his feet. Christina is already shaking, already realizing that the movement from earlier was not accidental, and now they’ve brought her here and she is going to _die_ in as much pain as possible.

But Eddie isn’t moving.

And Christina realizes that all the time they’d spent, finding this girl, bringing her here, tying her down—it was time they were not thinking about _her_.

“How many girls.” She tries to ask, her mouth dry. Billy shifts, gripping her arm hard enough to leave bruises, but it’s Eddie who steps back into the hallway. “How _many_.”

“Mama—”

“All this, going on under _my roof?”_ She forces her voice as high and shrill as she can make it, her anger more real than anything she’s felt for months. “I thought I was _special!_ ”

“They were nothing, they were _nothing_ , we—”

“H-He wanted them, Mama, he wanted us to have ‘options’, just in case you weren’t strong enough—”

“I am your _mother_.” She shouts, grabbing at Billy’s arms. Her nails are nice and long now, like Eddie’s, sharp enough to dig into Billy’s soft skin. “I would do _anything_ for you, do you not realize that? And you go behind my back and do something like _this_ , bringing this whore into my house, spitting in my face! I have _never_ , in my life, thought that I would raise such disrespectful children!”

Billy has released his hold on her, but her fingers are still on his arm, the skin still red from where they’d removed the tape. Eddie is collapsing again, coming to his knees on the wood floor, and she looks to them both in turn to watch both men cower.

She likes this.

She likes this a _lot._

“Did you want her, Eddie? Did you want to _fuck_ her? Did you hold her down, and open her up, just to satisfy your adolescent cravings?”

Eddie whines, bringing his hands up to his ears, and Christina stands tall as Billy releases her. Her fatigue and aches have been burned away, purified by this new power.

“H-He wanted to, Mama, he wanted to see her, but she hit him, and he started _cutting_ —”

“She didn’t _appreciate_ us, she didn’t—good girls are quiet, and do not fight, good girls sit pretty and say nothing and—”

Christina hesitates, looking between Billy and Eddie as they both try to explain themselves. Finally, she releases Billy, watching him step backwards.

“Did you want to see her, Billy? It’s okay. You can tell me anything, Billy.”

“I-I-I-“ Billy’s breaths are quick and sharp, almost painful in their sound, and Christina shushes him silently as she nods.

“Mama isn’t angry with you, Billy. Mama forgets how big her boys are, how _grown-up_ they are becoming.” Her breath catches in her throat as she looks to Eddie, his huge form still hunched on the floor. “Eddie? Eddie, may I see you?”

It is slow, but he does move, wrenching his head upwards to look her in the eye. His face is streaming with tears, sores weeping on his cheek, and Christina moves carefully to stand between him and Billy.

“She was a _slut_ , dear, nothing more than a-than a passing fantasy, I promise—”

“I don’t need to baby you, do I.” She thinks, letting him shuffle back against the floor. “How many girls, Eddie?”

Eddie faces her, his eyes wide, and he looks back to the floor without answering. Reaching behind her, Christina grabs Billy’s arm again, dragging him to her side.

“How _many_.”

“We had five, to start, five different ones, and before you there were others, but none of them made it.” Billy is babbling now, squirming in her grip while watching Eddie. “You needed to see her. You needed to _see_.”

Christina nods, lifting her head to feel the rush in her veins. Yes. She needed to see. If she had not seen, then she would not have learned how _angry_ she could be. And she would not have found her new place with Eddie and Billy.

“I will protect you, Billy. You know that, right? I can help you, if you will help me.”

He nods hurriedly, clinging to her now.

“And Eddie. I can protect you too, Eddie, if you let me. If you trust—”

With a roar, Eddie slams a hand against the ground, getting to his feet to stand tall and furious in the hallway. Billy finds his own strength then, moving in front of Christina, and she thrills to know that it’s _worked_.

Billy loves her now, loves her enough to fight Eddie.

“You can’t do _anything_ , you ignorant wench, you babbling moron, you—” Eddie raises a hand, but Billy pushes him backwards, preventing him from reaching out. “ _You_.”

“You _can’t_ hurt her, she’s Mama now, she’s the best mama—”

“Lying cheating ignorant _whore_ —”

“You do _not_ call her that!” Billy slams Eddie against the wall, pinning him there with a hand. “She has been _nice_ to us, nothing but nice, and she deserves better than your _shouting_.”

Eddie looks over Billy’s shoulder to face her, and Christina finds the look dangerously deep. There are too many emotions running through him, too much strength in his heart and hands, and he is losing his place. He needs his script.

“I could—I could keep us safe, I could—”

“This is _not_ keeping us safe.” Billy shoves him again for emphasis, prompting Eddie to back away and escape Billy’s grip. “You are going to hurt her.”

“I thought—” Eddie pauses, trapped, and he finally turns to disappear back through the hallway, leaving Christina’s sight to open a door elsewhere in the house. She can feel the adrenaline in every vein, the need and power and thrill pulsing through her, but as Billy turns back to her, he grabs her wrists to hold her down.

“Please don’t be angry. He can’t help it, not really, he just…he just doesn’t know what he’s doing, sometimes. He _wants_ to help us. He wants to help you. He wants—” Billy stops himself, sighing. “I-I’ll clean it up. I promise. We have to move, but we’re finding you a better house, I promise. You believe me, right? You believe me?”

Christina hesitates, fighting the urge to pull away, and instead offers a comforting smile. She draws closer to Billy, nodding once as she studies him.

“Of course I believe you, Billy. I’m sure it’ll be _wonderful_.”

“Then—” If anything, Billy looks sheepish, staring at his hands. “You’ll understand, that I have to put you back—just until Eddie gets back. I can’t keep watch on you if I’m busy with…her.”

Christina tenses, but the panic dulls as soon as it flares. Her head begins to hurt, throbbing, and she staggers slightly as the voice begins to swell in her.

_Soon._

She nods slowly, letting Billy pull her back as he leads her back to the bathroom. She wants to fight—but the pressure prevents her, suppressing her worry. She will be fine. Eddie is angry, but he will calm down. They just need time.

A bit more time.

She barely even notices when Billy wraps the tape around her wrists again, and instead relaxes into the tub. Time. She just needs time.

Time, after all, can heal all wounds.


	4. Chapter 4

She can feel cool air against her skin as they move, silent as stalkers through the night.

Billy had told the truth about having to move. Eddie has explained how they have to keep moving, how too many missing girls in one place is too much. The shadows agree with him, and Christina is bound again, gagged again, and blindfolded. She expected Billy to be the one carrying her—but it is Eddie who has her over his shoulder, his arm around her waist to keep her in place.

She has seen all the girls now. She spent the first night replaying the image of the girl in her mind, focusing on the _blood_. The _cuts._ They hadn’t mentioned it, but she could see where Eddie had scratched at her with his nails, digging deep in rage.

Billy had apparently felt remorseful. He’d shown her the other girl, the one they’d kept in the living room, and that one was enough to make her skin crawl. They hadn’t buried her right away. And the _smell_.

And he had explained about the others. They couldn’t keep them all in the same place, of course. The house was too small for that. Eddie had wanted so many, Billy said, and he was _good_ at finding the right ones. The quiet ones. The ones who wouldn’t be missed, and who were drawn to the shadows.

Eddie had been angry. He didn’t _want_ her to see. And he especially didn’t want her asking questions, and so she didn’t. She simply watched, and nodded, and let them tie her up again in the bathroom.

But later, when they were getting ready to leave, Eddie had brought her a pair of pants. She could see the blood on the cuffs, but she’d put them on anyway, his eyes on her body as she shimmied into them. Eddie was always watching, now. He talked less and watched more, in the way all men knew to do, but he never touched. Christina wanted to ask. Her curiosity was growing, with all the time she had to think, and she couldn’t find a reason to explain Eddie. Billy was easier—with his names, and his attempts at being gentle, and his fear. But Eddie _wanted_ her differently, and yet hadn’t forced himself on her.

She had dreamed vividly those nights. She saw the girls. She _felt_ them, lived their lives in their last, screaming moments, and realized what it was to have someone pry you apart. Becoming a mother meant making sacrifices, starting with that first original pain. Eve’s sin in the garden, inviting the devil into her heart. Or was that Lilith? Christina can’t remember. If the information isn’t in her head, the dreams can’t remember it for her.

What she can remember is that they’re moving. Moving carefully, slowly, keeping away from the highway. She remembers being afraid of the dark, once. She used to think that someone was watching her, that someone might jump out and attack. Well, now she has her boys. Her _dears_. Billy, so strong and so handsome, his hair just coming back in patches. And Eddie, now…the sores would probably remain for a while yet, his neck bulging in odd places, but she knows better than to ask questions. She doesn’t talk to them about Jakob, or her father. They have no need to tell her about their lives.

Thinking about Eddie reminds her of his arms, one wrapped around her waist while the opposite hand rested against her calf. This is the most he’s touched her since…since she can’t remember when. He is warm, hot with the exertion of walking, and even though the blood rushes to her head, she treasures the moment. Once they get to the new place—a house, of some sort, maybe a little cottage by a lake—he might never touch her again.

The thought makes her sigh softly against his back, hiding her face in her hair. That’s grown longer too, without maintenance. She cut it short a long time ago, but now it’s long again, tangling around her. Maybe they’ll get haircuts. Maybe…maybe _she_ can cut their hair, trim Eddie’s bangs back to look at those eyes again.

Cutting needs scissors. And thinking of scissors, and cutting, while inhaling the deep scent of Eddie’s sweat—this time it is the shadows that make her sigh, any whimper hidden in the folds of her gag. _No_ , they say. _No cutting_.

Her head throbs, and she squeezes her eyes shut against the movement around her. She wants to make Eddie look nice. Billy needs more hair, before it can be trimmed, but she can make him look nice too. Because cutting hair is part of caring for her boys, as she wants to do. She wants to cook and clean and help them. And in return…

In return they will give her everything she needs.

She doesn’t know how far they go. There are a few nights spent at old truck stops, Billy doing his best to smash open vending machines to get them peanuts for dinner. She doesn’t know what they do, or how they do it, but the shadows help them. Billy knows the shadows best: she can tell when he’s dreaming, even while awake, and the shadows tell him where to go. Eddie can’t feel them as much, but he is forced to follow them, and so they help him in return. Christina has been the last, the latest, and she is learning how difficult it is to bargain with the shadows when they have something firmly in mind.

In their collective minds, rather. Billy and Eddie and her. Billy Eddie her, Billy Eddie her, Mama and Babies and Father and Son and—

She wakes with a start, finding herself not slung over Eddie’s shoulder, but cradled in his arms. It must be difficult for him to walk like this, and she opens her mouth to protest, but Eddie shifts his grip and pulls her tight against his shoulder. Tight enough to hurt, like he would crush her into him. She gasps, turning into the movement, and he relents just slightly. Billy has gone on ahead, faster on his own, and already Christina feels the loss—but she allows it, measuring time with the pace of Eddie’s footsteps.

The crunch of underbrush turns into the shifting of gravel, and Christina listens close as a screen door opens. Billy is closer, she can tell. He’s moving, he’s busy, and the shadows are tired. Tired? She can feel their exhaustion, pouring into her like she’s nothing but a sponge, and finally Eddie’s feet stamp against wood as he climbs a set of stairs. Billy hovers close, touching her hair gently, but Eddie moves past him until he stands in front of a door.

“Go in.” Billy urges, now behind them. Christina forces herself to open her eyes, looking at the doorframe by the faint moonlight, and Eddie stares at the door with an expression of resolution.

“No. This is special. We might stay.”

“We wanted to stay at the last one—”

“But now we have _her_.” Eddie’s grip tightens around her again, and she sits up slightly, forced to rest against his chest as she moves. “ _Darling_.”

 _Darling._ The word at once thrills and repulses her, the emotion undefinable and unknown. It rises up in her throat, threatening to choke her, but Eddie interprets this hesitation as a sign that she is simply overcome by his tenderness. He nods once, looking again to the door, and takes a deep breath as he steps with his right foot over the threshold.

“This is our home now.”

“Home.” She echoes, her eyelids fluttering. How can she be so tired? Eddie’s been the one carrying her, Billy and Eddie have worked so hard…

But they still need her, don’t they. It can be so exhausting, taking care of two rowdy, unruly _boys_.

Billy closes the door behind them, moving through the room, moving something out of their way as Eddie carries her to a couch. A _couch_. With stuffing, and fabric, and soft enough that she can feel it even as Eddie sits down.

“A home for us.”

“A home. Where we can—” Billy garbles his words, moving through the darkness. “We had to go so far.”

“We’ve come here. For you, darling. You are…so _special_ to us.” Eddie says, his voice thick. Christina whines softly, refusing to move, but finally she opens her eyes again to look up at Eddie.

“You needed a mama? To make a home?”

“ _Yes_.” Billy hisses with glee, nodding eagerly, but Eddie turns his head to glare at the younger man.

“Slowly.”

“She is _Mama_.”

“She is _darling_.”

Christina does not answer them in words—getting between them in a fight should only be done on rare occasions, when she needs to enforce discipline—but she reaches up, placing a hand against Eddie’s good cheek. Instantly, his attention snaps back to her, and he manages a wavering smile as she pats him once.

“We will work on Mama in the morning.” She makes this concession, not knowing what exactly it means. “Eddie…”

“A precious—” He swallows, nodding again.

“Eddie, you _held_ me.” She feels herself smiling, falling back again into the promise of sleep, and she accepts the slumber gladly. Eddie has some way to go, perhaps. But he is growing less afraid. The shadows are shaping them all, just as they needed.

And she will do her best to be the best damn mother they have ever needed.


	5. Chapter 5

It is dark when the dreams come, for she’s fallen into sleep again. Sleep is her constant, and she has barely seen the house. But something keeps tugging at her, pulling at her, tearing her apart and filling her up with new things, new ideas. Billy whispers to her sometimes, she knows that. Under his breath, in his own dreams, wanting her so badly he could _burst_. But never has she felt like this, her own brain screaming under the pressure of the things outside begging to get in.

It’s possible she is awake. Her eyes can’t tell the difference between sleeping and waking, but there is the faintest glimmer of moonlight through the shutters. Somewhere in this house, there is a body. She tilts her head back, her movement restricted, and as she faces the thing sitting on her chest, she gasps.

It is shapeless, formless, and it keeps her from moving. Her scream is refused, her voice caught in her throat, and it seeps into her like mud over a corpse. She is afraid. She _should_ be afraid. But the thing tries to use her gently, to enforce some tenderness into its grip, and she closes her eyes again to feel it wrapping those long, inhuman fingers around her brain.

In the morning, she will not remember this. But the thing is so masculine, so rooted in Billy and Eddie, that she cannot help but think of them as it surrounds her. Like back in the bathtub, it offers comfort. It whispers to her, loving her, filling her, and as she tries to reach up for it—either to scratch at it or to embrace it fully—it memorizes the patterns of her skin, the cords of her muscles, the lines of her very bones.

It isn’t like Eddie. Not the way she thinks of him. Neither does it have Billy’s caution, or his fear. It finds her breasts, and she whimpers as it squeezes them both tight, then releases her. Its attention and its movements are one and the same—after all, a dream’s thoughts are the same as its actions. When it reaches between her legs, she cries out, unsure exactly of how it can ignore her pants so easily. It doesn’t even have a _body_ to press against her, and yet it forces its way in, exploring her.

 _Billy_. It is not a cry for help, but a whisper of affection, her need to cherish and love and baby her boy locking her spine in a rictus. The thing strokes her, worships her, and the thought of having a child—of being _Mama_ , becoming the thing she was always meant to become—makes her shiver in pleasure. It is not the thing’s doing. It is her love for Billy that makes her sigh, the thing’s attentions rough only because of the _love_ it has—that Billy has—that _they_ have for each other.

 _Eddie_. The thing makes a noise when she whispers the name, a garbled noise of anger. She was not aware that nightmares could be angry, but it shoves its way into her, deeper. Harder. Her body tenses, her immobility a torture as it resists the desire to rip her apart, and she writhes in its grip. A good father is strong, frightfully strong, so that he can protect his children. His _darling_. And she will have him, one way or another, and he will master his urges and save them from the world outside.

The shadows want her, they _are_ her, they crawl into all the spaces of her and gnaw at her heart and lungs, and it is a confused moment as it pushes into her and she _comes_ , muscles clenching and trembling around the insubstantial thing climbing over her. It cannot feel this way, it can’t be solid enough to feel anything, but she gives it her orgasm, sharing just as much as it takes. Her heart is beating fast enough to burst out of her chest, her mind whirling as it pulls the pleasure from her. The darkness and the shadows blend into one, her self consumed by this _thing_ eating her up from the inside, and just as she begins to come down from the peak of her climax, the shadows slam her back into unconsciousness, completing their exchange once and for all.

She will not remember this interaction, not in any detail. Billy may gain glimpses, if he asks the shadows nicely, but the shadows themselves only partially understand what they’ve done. But none of the three occupants of the house will think to ask the shadows about these events, and the shadows are busy with their own work.

They have a family to raise.


	6. Communion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My intention was to write another scene/chapter between the last chapter and this one. That did not happen. Suffice it to say, there is a period of time between this chapter and last chapter where the relationship develops somewhat further.

He watches her, drinking her in as if he’s worshiping her, and she does not move to satisfy him. Not yet, at least. Gluskin is the one with his hands on her hips, his lips moving down the back of her neck, and she can feel his need as hot and thick as a summer’s day. Billy may be the devotee, but Gluskin is the priest in this place of worship, his meager tokens of experience justifying his exploration. The whispers are strong, strongest thanks to their shared need and communal desire, and she can feel the names slipping beneath her skin as Gluskin pants and Billy whines.

_Mama._

_Mother._

_Darling._

_Dear._

Gluskin is more confused than Billy, but Billy punishes himself more for it, holding back. Gluskin has not learned restraint, and any restraint he had was burned away in the days after breakthrough. However, she has worked with him for several weeks, teaching him. The voice, the shadow, keeps its reins tight on Gluskin’s urges. And so she does not quiver as Gluskin reaches around her waist, for his touch is light and gentle, though his teeth worry the nape of her neck.

Gluskin’s hands are more frantic, the pressure of his pelvis threatening to push her forward, but Billy is moving. His hands come to the waist of her pants, resisting Gluskin’s movement, and Billy presses a gentle kiss just below her belly button as the hem of her shirt rides up. Gluskin groans, his forehead resting on her shoulder, and she brushes a hand over Billy’s head as she smiles at her boys.

Her beautiful, strong boys. A mother couldn’t be more proud.

With quick hands, she undoes her own buttons, recognizing that neither Gluskin nor Billy are prepared to face that hurdle. It is more difficult to move Gluskin’s hands, but she manages to tug him away from her groin, bringing his attention instead to her breasts, where the fabric of her bra still covers her nipples. Gluskin is hungry now, his mouth and tongue exploring the dip of her shoulder, and she grants him the honor of a pleased sigh as he manages to unhook the clasps, slip the straps from her shoulders, and finally toss the bra itself to the floor, bringing his hands back to her uncovered breasts.

Billy has his head pressed against her navel now, moaning as he dares to meet her eyes. She can see the love in them, the love so deep and dark and powerful that it gives him his strength, and she winks at him as Gluskin cups her breasts in his hands. Gluskin’s lips drag across her neck, Billy’s dip ever lower beneath her waist, and she finally shifts backwards to support herself on Gluskin’s body as Billy searches eagerly at the waist of her pants.

She does not need to warn Billy. He is always careful, always precise, and his tugging, though rough, is slow enough to ease her into the slight coolness of the air. Her hair stands on end as Billy slides the fabric all the way to the floor, gripping her knees as he nuzzles against the junction of her legs. The sensation is welcome, but Gluskin is more eager, his earlier distraction now resolved as he presses hard against her buttocks. He has not missed Billy’s movements—his hands grip her torso, squeezing her ribcage as he looks down the length of her and glories in the sight.

As beautiful as Billy is, on his knees before her, Gluskin is the one with his hands moving and his need more urgent. It takes a moment for her to coordinate, raising one foot and then the other to have Billy remove her pants entirely. She tugs at Gluskin’s hands, distracting him again, and his angry groan is enough confirmation of his mood. The bed has been saved for this, waiting for them, and she offers a consolatory glance to Billy as she steps around him, moving Gluskin to the bed before nodding again to Billy.

She can feel Gluskin’s hesitation, his earlier eagerness fading as she leans back against his chest, and his groaning is stifled in unsure whimpers as she pushes back. Billy is the eager one now, grabbing at her hips to press deep, sharp kisses to her groin, and she has to place a hand on his head to deal with both him and Gluskin in turn.

It is more difficult to accommodate Gluskin’s needs. Billy’s attention had been good, when getting rid of her own clothing, but now his willingness to help only causes interference as he tries to grip her waist. Gluskin, too, is unsure of his role, and she is forced to prop herself uncomfortably against his stomach as she undoes the button, pulls down the denim, and finally slides away the undergarments to free his erection. The minor discomfort is worth it, however, to feel Gluskin grabbing at her thighs, his groans renewed as she explores the length of his shaft, then presses it against the folds of her skin to feel the dampness slicking her fingers.

She has been ready, _so_ ready, for longer than she realized, and it is a simple matter to slip him inside her. Gluskin is falling apart already, his mouth pressed against the ridges of her spine, and she thrills to feel him twitch beneath her. He wants to touch, to grab and feel, but she has pressed him against the bed and robbed him of his movement. She is _winning_.

Billy is rising between Gluskin’s legs now, resting against the edge of the bed for support as he renews his attention to her breasts. Billy is still new to this game, fumbling at her like with a new toy, but Gluskin’s movements keep her centered. His hands fit easily around the curves of her pelvis, angling her back against him, and she braces herself as she lifts up and rocks back, pulling Billy along with her.

The warmth of his body clings to her, wrapping around her, and she tilts her head back to let Billy trace his way up, between her breasts, and along her neck, touching softly before following with his lips. Gluskin, usually so good with his hands, is limited now, pushing her into a rhythm to push into her. Though Billy’s attention is nice, it is Gluskin’s grip that draws the groans from her lips, pulling her down again and again to nestle her hips against his.

It is only a few moments before Gluskin shifts again, pulling her back to return his lips to her neck. Billy is dangerously close, pressing her forward while Gluskin presses against her back. She is surrounded by _love_ , the adoration of her lovely boys, and she opens her mouth to express her appreciation in a slowly rising cry. Billy tries to swallow the sound, kissing the side of her mouth as Gluskin matches her sound with a growl of his own. Gluskin’s tone is rough and deep, a counterpoint to her light voice and eager breaths, and his fingers dig into her skin as he pushes hard.

He _wants_ her, he _needs_ her, and his need comes out in throaty, deep groans, heightening in pitch every time she sits back. Billy’s light touch is barely noticeable, with Gluskin’s tight pressure, and she rises above them as the pressure builds deep inside her.

Gluskin is stymied, unable to move as he would like, and she does her best to reciprocate for his trouble. With a slight adjustment, she changes her rhythm, rolling her hips instead of pushing back roughly. Gluskin cries out, loud enough to match her, and grabs at her desperately, pulling her away from Billy as his hands move up, over her stomach, tearing at her skin as if to open her to the world. Billy echoes them both with a gasp of his own, lavishing her chin with his kisses, but it is Gluskin’s hands which roam over her now. After a detailed exploration of her torso, he finally dips down again to find the junction of their bodies, sweat and lubrication making it easy for him to spread her apart and stoke the building fire.

It is now that she reaches for Billy, using his lips as her mute as she writhes between them. Billy’s hand is on her breast, tracing useless against the flesh, and Gluskin spills himself against her as he grinds her down on him. His mouth is open with the exertion of breathing, his saliva barely contained by kisses, and she can feel the roughness of his face against the curve of her back. Her skin is hardly any better, but his hands are rough with callouses in places, where he’s labored over her clothes or a meal or the digging of graves. He fingers her roughly, only recently accustomed to the responses she gives, and when she tightens around him, he places the flat of his hand against her groin and pushes her hard atop him.

Her orgasm is sudden, painful, her entire body trying to rise up and escape as he holds her in place. With the others, he tries to whisper instructions, tries to order them or force them, but he has learned. She has trained him. The compulsions now instruct him to keep her tight against her, his hips jerking as he comes hard into her eager need. He does not bite, not like he used to, but his grunting is raw enough, his rutting and grinding and rubbing pulling her down with him into the tumult of climax. He fills her, the eager need clamoring for _more_ , and for a moment she feels herself leaving the coils of love and adoration and need and want and simply _being_ , existing solely in the moment of warm heat with him and with Billy and their shadows.

Billy is not a selfish boy. As she and Gluskin catch their breath, Gluskin still clinging to her desperately, Billy smiles at them both. He smooths her hair, murmuring softly to himself, and steps back to let her recover. She settles back, resting against Gluskin’s chest, and Gluskin himself relaxes to let their tension ease. Billy kneels again, letting Gluskin lay back as she lifts herself off of him, and smiles as she comes forward to cup his chin.

He has done so well. _Gluskin_ has done well. She loves them both so, so much, so much that it could tear her _up_ , and they love her just as much. Mother-Darling-Dearest.

 They will protect her, and keep her, and she will make them a family.


	7. Chapter 7

Christina had thought that anger was the best she could manage. Even before meeting Billy and Eddie, anger had sustained her in difficult moments, kept her moving when she just wanted to curl up and die. Then she’d met Billy, and the shadows, and Eddie Gluskin, and learned just what she could do when she was angry.

If she is angry, the shadows are angry too. They came in dreams, but she can see them in daylight too, and even talk to them like Billy does. The shadows had prevented the ‘authorities’ (a meaningless term now, but she remembers the idea of flashing lights and sirens and a memory from someone else about men shouting) from finding their little hideaway, and the shadows are strong enough to warn them if there is trouble. She knows now that the shadows had chosen this place, had guided Billy to the old woman in the cabin and shown him how to crush her skull so that she and Eddie could rest here. Christina is glad that she has not had to kill anyone. It would make such a _mess_.

She is Mother and she is Darling. Eddie worships the ground she walks on, and she repays his adoration with sex. _Sex_. She’d almost forgotten it, all those weeks after being ‘adopted’ by them. It had hovered in her mind unspoken, never brought to conscious memory, but after the shadows’ exploration of her body, she had begun to crave it. The shadows had brought her to orgasm, a story she has not yet shared with Billy or Eddie, and the first reminder of pleasure had only whetted her appetite. Eddie’s hunger had grown more apparent. His stares were longer, more determined. Billy tried to avoid the thought longer, but he confessed to her on his knees, weeping and blubbering for thinking of her ‘that way’. She had soothed him, and wiped away his tears. It wasn’t his fault. It was the shadows. The dreams.

Eddie and Billy had taught her so much about their life, they had provided so well for her, and she was happy to give back. She taught them about herself, about how to be _gentle_ and how to be slow, and how to use just the slightest movements to earn her approval. They did not fight anymore.

But that had been before _now_. And where anger and softness had served her so well, now the only thing is _pain_ , and the shadows cannot (or will not?) assist.

Her stomach twists, and she heaves into the porcelain bowl of the toilet, her body shaking with the effort. Gluskin/Eddie (she gets confused) watches from the doorway, his lips bitten deep enough to draw blood, and he does not move to either help or hurt. Billy has left, gone into the bigger world to find them the supplies Eddie cannot make, and he might be gone for a few hours or a few days. She knows all this, she still thinks about all these parts of their lives in her brain while her body shudders and she whimpers in helpless fatigue.

There is a low noise, a murmuring, and she turns to see Eddie’s lips moving as if he’s praying. She hisses, falling to the side before dragging herself forward, and it takes a moment before she makes out words in the litany.

“—stop it stop it you’re hurting her please make it stop—“

She shivers again, crawling forward to grab at Eddie’s legs and hide from the bright light of the bathroom. She can feel his tension, the way his body locks into rictus, and she wants to soothe him. But she cannot, not when she’s puking her guts out and seized by cramps.

“Be nice t’them, Eddie, they’re not—“ She grips tighter, a scream cut off by another stab of pain, but she recovers with deep breaths. “It’s not them.”

“If you stop resisting them, darling, they don’t hurt you.” The statement is oddly matter-of-fact for Gluskin’s demeanor, but she exhales and releases him so that he can join her on the floor. “Stop resisting. Just relax, be daddy’s—“

Ah. There again. His features lock up, his lips twisted into a grim smile, and Christina does not have the energy to deal with another one of his episodes. He is level with her now, so she grabs onto his shoulders and hoists herself into the arch of his body. Another tremor takes her, and she shivers, ignoring the way Eddie Gluskin wars with himself.

“Listen to the dreams. They don’t—they would help. If they could.” Even as she says it, her face screws up in concentration, confusion marring her confidence. “Listen to them.”

Gluskin is lost in his own problems. She has learned that whenever he says ‘Daddy’ (not ‘Father’, he has learned to say ‘Father’) then he has…problems. Billy used to do it with ‘Mama’, if ‘Mama’ was ever too hesitant or afraid, but Christina rarely showed fear. Billy is doing much better, and it is because he listens to the shadows more frequently.

A pang of regret fills her, and she acknowledges that Billy has something that she and Eddie do not. Perhaps he loves the shadows, while they simply accept their presence.

“I’m sick, Eddie. Just a little stomach bug. You know? You’re sick a lot too, you’ve been sick for a long time, and it hurts me when you cough sometimes but it isn’t _their_ fault.”

Eddie shivers, and she sighs, pleading with the shadows to just let him stay here for a while. She has not been scared for a while, but when her own body is unfamiliar, then she begins to fear.

“If—If you. If you need to be alone. Sometimes women…need their space.” Eddie nods mechanically, moving a hand to her abdomen. “I can get you supplies, if you need—“

His awkwardness is odd, somehow endearing, and Christina is confused as to why it makes her laugh. She slips away from him, sitting back, then shakes her head, shivering again with a chill. It is like her own father, when he’d had to help her buy tampons. Is it so difficult for all men?

“I don’t have that.” She covers his hand with hers, tutting softly. “I am _sick_.”

“But you feel fine at other times, like in the evenings, so how—“

“Eddie.” She speaks softly, forcing him to pay attention. “Let’s go for a walk.”

He does not respond for several moments, trying to decide between her request and her pain and the evidence mounting over the past few days of a real illness. Christina is gratified, almost ecstatic, when he lifts her from the floor, held against his chest.

Perhaps she just misses Billy. Perhaps she is just weak, and needs to recover. But her boys will help her, and she will get strong again. No one is perfect.

She is merely _sick_.

+++

It is much later when Billy returns. She can hear them discussing her, their voices muted and clipped. They are not great conversationalists, her boys. They do better when she is there as mediator. But she is trapped on the couch, thinking of the previous resident of this house and the way her body is decaying, still trying not to vomit. It is a constant struggle.

As she turns on the couch, she reaches up to stroke her throat, concerned by the pain there too. Vaguely, she is aware that vomit would irritate the skin of her esophagus, and it makes her mouth taste disgusting, but there is soreness in other places too. Her body seems…uncertain. As if it doesn’t understand her anymore.

She manages to sit up, rubbing at her face, and looks over to find Billy approaching her. He kneels (he is very good at kneeling) to look up at her, placing his hands on her knees.

“We are worried, Mama.”

 _Mama_. For some reason, the name makes her moan softly, a tenderness in her heart mirrored by a tenderness between her legs. “My Billy.”

He is confused by her response, blinking quickly, but he does not pull away as she strokes his head and cheeks. “And Eddie. My Eddie. My Billy.”

“Darling—“

She beckons to him, gripping Eddie’s shirt to lift herself before pressing against him. Her seduction is not usually so blunt. But her brain is lighting on fire with conflicting wants and needs. Billy stands with them, supporting her, and as his hands move forward to cup her breasts, she shivers and wriggles away once more, the shock of his touch more sharp than any she can remember.

“Mama?”

She holds onto Eddie again, feeling fevered and uncertain even as tears start into her eyes. She _wants_ to love her boys. She wants to feel them around her, inside her. But her breasts are heavy, painful, and her stomach is clenching, and Eddie and Billy can do nothing.

“ _Boys_.” She closes her eyes, shivering anew, and their hands hold her up.

“You said you were not…bleeding.” Oh, Eddie. Always so shy.

“Women can have women’s problems—“

“It is _not_ a woman’s problem.” She snaps, feeling her emotions grow brittle. “I haven’t had a period in…”

Eddie’s grip shifts, and he studies her face carefully. “How long has it been?”

She frowns, blinking quickly before meeting his gaze. “I don’t know.”

“What? What does that mean?” Billy does not want to let go, but he watches them both, his face twitching as the shadows whisper to him. “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know. It has been so long, Eddie, it has been…how long have you had me? Months? It has been months, Eddie, I haven’t needed anything because I haven’t been menstruating, I haven’t had a period.”

The words make her sick to her stomach in a new way, and she collapses where she stands. Eddie is quick, however, and he keeps her upright, his grip tight enough to pull her away from Billy. There is a new fire in his eyes, a determination that confuses her, but he does not speak for several long moments as the other two wait. The shadows speak into all three of them, whispering reassurances, offering promises. The shadows _approve_ of Eddie’s machinations, and encourage him further.

“We are going to be a family.” He murmurs, almost too low for her to hear. Christina cries out softly, the idea piercing her through, but even as she tries to escape his grip, the shadows encourage her too.

_You will be Mama again. A better Mama. We are making a better Family._

_Billy was the first. The first of many. We will have many babies, many Billys, and they will grow up big and strong and we will be **STRONG.**_

She whimpers, but nods against Eddie’s chest, watching Billy process. She does not know what they say to him. But it must be good, because he eventually starts to smile. Shy, and hesitant, but he is smiling, watching her with a new reverence.

“Good fathers—good fathers will protect their family.” Eddie is continuing, and she can feel the rumble in his chest as he speaks. “A good wife. A good father. My _darling_ , you have made me so, so, _so_ happy.”

She knows he is telling the truth. He cannot lie to her now, with the shadows between them.

“I am going to have a baby.” She whispers, the words unfamiliar yet soothing to her. She is frightened. Scared. Afraid. But she has been afraid before, and the shadows made her strong. She will be even stronger to do this.

“We are going to make such a good family.” Billy murmurs, his hands clasped before her chest. She feels like Mary, the lady in the nativity scene, with men supporting her and worshipping her for her _baby_.

And above them all, their angel of the shadows, huge and powerful and loving. It has guided them here. It will guide them further. Like a star, it will tell them where the child is to be born.

The Family will start to grow.


	8. Chapter 8

The streetlight above the bus stop had broken weeks ago. Maggie can’t remember how long, really, but she had adjusted to it quickly enough. After everything else in life, a streetlight is a minor inconvenience. She takes the bus every night, and so it faded into the background: just another thing to ignore. This time, however, after stepping off the bus into the darkness, she walks a few feet before realizing that she is not alone at the bus stop. _Too dark to see, probably_. Her eyesight isn’t great, and so she takes a hesitant step closer to study the figure seated in the small bus stop.

“That’s the last one tonight, honey. The schedule’s up on the post, here, if you need to see…”

Instead of an answer, the figure merely groans, arms wrapped around her abdomen as she rocks back and forth on the metal bench. Maggie takes another careful step, concern replacing her own hesitation as she recognizes a young woman hunched in pain.

“Honey? Is everything okay?”

The groans change, a slight pitch change indicating an answer. Maggie reaches out to touch the woman’s shoulder, patting her gently while trying to evaluate her condition. A young woman, alone late at night? Never a good sign. And with the way she holds her belly…

“Oh, you poor thing.” Maggie tuts, reaching down to cover the woman’s hands with one of her own. “How far along?” She’d never had a grandchild, but she remembers her own pregnancies vividly enough. “Do you need me to call someone? If you have a number, we can find someone, find you a place for the night—“

Suddenly, more quickly than she’d realized a human could move, Maggie feels a pair of hands wrapped around her throat, the force knocking her back from the shelter of the bus stop. She can’t determine what is happen, the movement too fast and the bus stop too dark, but the hands leave and a strap of some kind takes their place, tightening even further around her windpipe. She can’t breathe, but she still tries to scream, her vision blurring as she is shoved around and the pressure increases. _Help me_ , she thinks as loudly as she can, hands curling into claws as she tries to pull away the thing around her throat. She is not young, and her body does not have the strength to resist long: her world goes dark, and she struggles futilely against the approach of unconsciousness, her heart beating faster than ever before as a huge dark hand finally settles over her face.

+++

This is it. This is the first person she’s ever killed.

Christina can feel the rush, the adrenaline that would keep her running for at least an hour or two. The body is unimpressive, a lump of wrinkles and perfume that vaguely disgusts her, but the power of the killing has allowed her to see the world in a new light. There is no light around her, not real light, but the shadows sing to her, show her the reality of things. Darkness is not dark now. The shadows love her, and will protect her.

Billy is still their favorite, but she has their child. As she has the thought, Billy emerges from his hiding place across the street, hurrying forward to pick up the body she has carelessly left on the ground. Still breathless from the excitement, Christina follows silently, untangling the purse from around the woman’s throat to slip it over her shoulder. They move together, with an unspoken purpose, leaving the body in a dumpster before moving through the streets again.

Their lives have improved somewhat. Returning to the city is dangerous, but there are the things they need. Eddie is familiar with the city, and does the talking for them when needed. Billy is best at the killing. And Christina is learning how to appear weak and helpless, to lure in their prey. Gas station attendants don’t pay much attention to Eddie’s scars, and they like looking at Christina as she sighs and clings to him.

By keeping to the alleys, following the guidance of the shadows, they cross the city easily, and they find Eddie in a stolen car further away from the city center. With Christina in the passenger seat, they count up the money they have, gathered from their variety of pickings. Eddie has taught them. He has taught them how to avoid making a pattern, how to escape scrutiny, how to choose victims that will not be missed quickly. Christina adores him, as she adores Billy, but now that they have a mission they are learning ever more about each other.

At night, ever since the cabin, Christina and Billy listen to the shadows. The killings make it easier to hear them, and Christina can feel the child in her growing. It has the shadows in it already, and it squirms inside her, waiting to be free. Eddie dotes on her, when they have the time, coos to his child and promises to be the best damn father in the whole damn world. Billy sometimes weeps quietly, whispering prayers to the shadows and beckoning the arrival of their Family.

It has taken her a long time to understand. Months and months, with Billy and Eddie and then their weeks of pure perfect love. But they drive in the darkness, always moving, communing with their god and praying to the child and waiting. However, as they go further south, Christina feels the power in her growing, and half-remembered quotations from the Gospels come back to her.

She knows they have started in Colorado. She remembers that. But as they near the southern border, she reaches out to turn on the radio, flipping through the stations before a crackling deep voice resonates from the shitty speakers.

“ _…unto all of creation….I have come to thee. Remember too, brothers, our scriptures, the hand that points our way in this desert of our own creation. God has abandoned this world, but through the voice he uses we will make it new again, and we shall rightly see._

_“…Brothers, we fly from the cities of iniquity, away from the nests of heresy and lust. Our children will be born, and multiply, and our children’s children will flourish in a land of our creation, a land of glory where the Prophet’s word is our truth._

_“…We fly as ravens, from the land of Al-Barquq, and the work has begun in the land beyond Hokomata’s wound, beyond the land of the Havasupai, where our eyes have been opened to see the Gate that is made._

_“’Said He unto me, here is your Temple, and here is your Gate. And the dimensions, materials, and labor of Temple Gate was made known to me. And the hands of those who would build Temple Gate were made known to me, and their faces, and their hearts. Their hearts were filled with fear, but their hands would be willing, and their eyes would see the glory of His kingdom come.’”_

_“…Our tribe shall welcome them all, all the labor in this glorious work.”_

Christina gasps, the static cutting into the speech and prompting her to turn it off. As she reaches up to her face, she feels tears on her cheeks, a pain and a yearning wracking her chest as she tries to breathe. Eddie does not stop driving, but he looks to her in concern, while Billy reaches forward to grip her shoulder.

“There.”

Billy nods eagerly, whining softly in the back of his throat. “A home for us.”

Eddie inhales slowly, returning his eyes to the road. “There are no directions—“

“We go south. We go to Temple Gate.” Christina can feel the power in her again, the need building in her hands. Her nails are long. She can be dangerous. But she can also help. She can help build a new world for her child, this place where heretics will no longer be heretics, where the shadows can be understood and they can worship in true glory.

“Temple Gate.” Billy repeats, his voice thick with an unknown lust. “Our god shall be their god.”

“And there the child will be born.” Christina chokes on her own voice, shuddering with the power in her, and she grips Eddie’s arm to emphasize her power. “Faster.”

“We cannot be noticed, we still have—“

“ _Faster_.” She hisses, pleased to feel him accelerating along the empty desert road. They are near, so very close to where they need to be. It is good to know that they are not delaying. The child moves in her belly, the faintest cry reminding her that the pain and pleasure will be upon her soon.

The shadows embrace her, and she cries out with happiness, basking in its attention while Eddie drives and Billy whispers his prayers. The child will be born in Temple Gate. She will be the mother of a new generation, a new power that will reshape the earth. She will have her Eddie, her Billy, her Family, and she will bear many children. Temple Gate will shepherd them all, and she will be the mother of a god.

 _Walrider will not be one but will be Many, a Family like Legion like locusts, growing and multiplying_.

Billy sighs in contentment, and Christina shivers with anticipation. They go to Temple Gate. This is why they have been moving, why they have been killing and stealing, all in support of this birth at this place. They are passing this dangerous test.

The shadows will protect them, and they will bring the shadows into the light.


End file.
